Whodunnit [hobbling] - Greenwich Theatre, Monday 9th June 2013

Synopsis:

Act 1

A collection of characters, apparently drawn directly from classic English detective fiction, arrive for a party in an old country house. Among them there is a Rear-Admiral, a lawyer,  a pair of "Bright Young Things" , a lady archaeologist,  and a flamboyantly eccentric butler who keeps trying to serve up his own cocktail creation, the "Zombie Whammy". There is also Andreas Capodistriou, a smooth talking serpent of a man who demonstrates to each guest in turn that he knows something compromising about them and is intent on blackmailing each one.

The act climaxes as each guest, having a reason to want Capodistriou dead, conceals his or her self on the set to lie in wait for the victim, who arrives alone and kneels to perform his evening prayer. As he does so, a collection of sword-wielding hands appear around him. One blade falls, removing his head, and the curtain falls.

Act 2

The act opens on an incongruous scene. Policemen in modern dress mingle with the archaically dressed guests. They are investigating the murder that ended the first act. The Rear Admiral sneezes and loses his fake moustache in the process. He reveals that he is actually an actor, and was hired to participate in a role-playing party for the owner of the house, who would act as detective and solve the mystery. It transpires that all of the "guests", and the butler, are also hired actors. The entire affair has been orchestrated in order to murder the man who played "Capodistriou", who in turn is revealed to be Gerry Marshall, a theatrical agent who held the contracts of all the actors. Each actor hated Marshall, but all deny knowing it was him playing Capodistriou. The organizer of the party was apparently Marshall himself. It is up to Inspector Bowden to unravel the tangle of relationships, real and unreal, to unmask the killer.

 

Cast:
Perkins, the Butler: James Pellow
Andreas Capodistriou, an oily Levantine: James Murphy
Silas Bazeby: Paul Cleveland
RearAdmiral Knatchbull Folliat; Robert Hannouch
Lady Tremurrain: Ellen Verenieks
Lavinia Hargreaves, a Bright Young Thing: Stephanie Wilson
Roger Dashwood, a Young Man About Town: Thomas Barron
Dame Edith Runcible, an archaeologist: Lillie Collier
Inspector Bowden: Damien Tracy
Sergeant: Andrew Beckett

Creative Team:
Written by Anthony Shaffer
Directed by Paul Taylor-Mills
Designer - David Shields
Produced by Kyle Vilcins

Him Indoors was in a lather of anticipation - he had seen the original production of this at Her Majesty's Theatre back when God was a boy, and when it was called The Case of the Oily Levantine. Apparently the cast was reasonably stellar for the period, the set was enormous, the production values slick - and it sank like a stone. 

I think this production would best be described as "endearingly awful". It did rather smack of a wet afternoon in Frinton-on-Sea watchng the local repertory company die on its arse in front of an audience of about 2 dozen punters, most of whom have only bought a ticket to get in out of the rain for a couple of hours.  The play smacks of "repertory company" anyway, with a vast array of parts for people of wildly differing ages.  That is no bad thing in itself - being "in rep" was a true apprenticeship which taught you your craft through long hard slog and experience; rehearsing one play during the day and appearing in another during the evenings every week really honed your expertise.  You developed your acting muscles and could play the leading man one week and a walk-on with three lines the next.  If there wasn't a part for you, you either helped out backstage, manned the box office or took a wildly unsuitable part if nobody else was available.  There were a couple of instances of people taking on wildly unsuitable parts in this show.

Whodunnit? is very much a "repertory company play" anyway - the "detective thriller" genre was one of the rep system staples.    And this play calls for each person to demonstrate two very distinct acting styles - in the first act, the audience has to be tricked into thinking that they are watching a "period thriller" in the style of the early stories of Agatha Christie, whereas in the second, it becomes apparent that the setting is contemporary.  This was actually pulled off very well in this production.  What wasn't so successful was that a couple of roles taken by people decades too young to play the parts convincingly, which could do nothing for the credibility of the production or the actors concerned.  White makeup plastered all over your hair does not make you look old - it makes you look like someone with white makeup plastered all over your hair.  Playing an old person and bounding about the stage like a boisterous puppy is not convincing - just embarassingly amateurish.  If you are going to use a walking stick, watch someone who has to use one and observe how they move.  Don't just flail it about. 

This is a well-crafted and intelligent play, and better production values and considerably better direction would have helped it immensely. The constraints of the set did not help the production but merely showed up its deficiencies.  I am not entirely sure that the Director was entirely up to speed with what was needed at several points.  Scrutinising the set, I could only make out one reflective surface (the glass of the French windows) when, at one point, every character on stage needs to be looking into one - no mirrors were in evidence, nor shiny silver trays, nor powder compacts.  When someone pours a drink, unless it is whisky or port (and most certainly if it is referred to as orange squash), more than an inch of fluid needs to be put in the glass.  The "voiceover", which narrates the viewpoint of the murderer, and which must not be identifiable as any member of the cast, was so garbled and obscured that it was supremely difficult to make out what was actually being said.  When your entire cast are meant to be holding swords, it looks daft to give one of them a golf club.

James Pellow really rather walks away with the acting honours in a stand-out turn as Perkins the Butler, transmogrifying into an evil old queen much in the style of Derek Jacobi in Vicious.  Paul Cleveland as Bazeby showed a complete inability to do anything with his arms - in fact, for at least the first ten minutes of Act 1, I was convinced that, for some reason to do with the plot, he was wearing false arms inside his jacket (he wasn't, but it looked like it).   Robert Hannouch, who cannot be out of his 20s, did not make a terribly convincing Old Sea Dog, and wearing a false moustache over a real one is just bizarre.  Mr. Hannouch, the Court finds you guilty of putting white makeup in your hair. Likewise, Lily Collier is far, far too young to play Dame Runcible (a role that was taken on Broadway by Hermione Baddely - Mrs. Bridges to you and me - when she must have been well into her 60s).  Thomas Barron is smoothly plausible as Roger Dashwood - full marks, Mr. Barron for correct period hair and pencil moustache.  And bonus points for wearing calf-length socks; nothing is so "unperiod" as being able to see a bit of white leg over the top of a short sock when a man is sitting down - at least two male cast members guilty of this.  Andrew Beckett gives a nice comic turn as the outrageously camp Police Sergeant, but the team is let down badly by Damien Tracey's Inspector Bowden, who looks like he needs a hairbrush, a razor, an ironing board, a needle and thread and a good night's sleep, as well as closer and more detailed direction - at several points I felt he was just wandering aimlessly and rather pointlessly about the stage.  Better direction would certainly have helped in the second act which is very wordy and liable to drag for the audience if they are not being visually entertained. 

I enjoyed this play, but am afraid that I didn't enjoy this production of it.  I stick by my claim of "endearingly awful".  It could have been so much better. I wanted it to succeed and be funny and sharp and slick and make me laugh and pack in the punters.  As it is, I found it all faintly embarrassing.   And I have to take issue with the "programme". One sheet of folded A4 paper inside a cover made of one sheet of folded A4 card does not constitute a programme, in my mind, particularly when a) it covers three plays being performed over a 12-day season, b) it contains nothing but cast and creative team biographies and mentions nothing whatsoever about the plays, their production histories and so on and c) it costs £2.  I've had more informative bus tickets and feel somewhat ripped off. 

The Amen Corner [soon to come off crutches]- National Theatre, Wednesday 5th June 2013

Synopsis:

The Amen Corner takes place in two settings: a ‘‘corner’’ church in Harlem and the apartment dwelling of Margaret Alexander, the church pastor, and of her son, David, and sister Odessa. After giving a fiery Sunday morning sermon, Margaret is confronted by the unexpected arrival of her long estranged husband, Luke, who collapses from illness shortly thereafter. Their son, David, along with several elders of the congregation, learn from Luke that, while Margaret had led everyone to believe that he had abandoned her with their son years ago, it was in fact Margaret who had left a dysfunctional Luke and pursued a religious life. This information precipitates confrontations between Margaret and her son, her congregation, and her estranged husband, regarding what they perceive as the hypocritical nature of her religious convictions, and the breakup of her family.

After an important conversation with his dying father, David informs Margaret that he is leaving home to pursue his calling as a jazz musician. On his deathbed, Luke declares to Margaret that he has always loved her, and that she should not have left him. Finally, Margaret’s congregation decides to oust her, based on their perception that she unjustly ruined her own family in the name of religion.

Cast:
David - Eric Kofi Abrefa
Ida Jackson - Naana Agyei-Ampadu
Brother Washington - Delroy Atkinson
Sister Rice - Katrina Beckford
Brother Boxer - Donovan F Blackwood
Sister Boxer - Jacqueline Boatswain
Sister Douglas - Miquel Brown
Odessa - Sharon D Clarke
Margaret - Marianne Jean-Baptiste
Luke - Lucian Msamati
Sister Moore - Cecilia Noble

Creative team:
Director - Rufus Norris
Set Designer - Ian MacNeil
Costume Designer - Joan Wadge
Lighting Designer - Paul Anderson
Music Supervisor and Vocal Arranger - The Rev Bazil Meade

Tickets to preview performance kindly supplied by Jenny Woods at AKAUK.com

(Note for the grumpy sod who criticised my review of Billy for having the audacity to mention something that happened before the actual performance started - you might want to skip this paragraph, as I will be having the temerity to do it again. Quite a lot.  Because going to the theatre is more than just seeing a show.  And its my blog).

Praise de Lawd, I am soon going to be off these crutches.  Actually, at a couple of points in this show, the gospel singing was so goddamned wonderful that I could happily have got up from my seat, hurled them into the aisle and shouted "Its a miracle! I can walk!"  But perhaps that might not have gone down too well with the rest of the audience, certainly not with the couple to my right who stank of cheap wine to the high heavens, or the couple to my left who quaffed pints of lager all the way through.  I came out afterwards smelling like I had spent the evening in a brewery (yes, I know wine isn't made in a brewery, but work with me on this one, brothers and sisters, and forgive me the sin of mixing metaphors).  I like gospel singing - its so jolly, even when its mournful (I once lived round the corner from a gospel church, and I used to run a hot bath on Sunday afternoon and open the bathroom window so that I could listen to the singing and soak away my sins. The odd glass of wine and rubber duck would feature sometimes - in the bathroom, that is; I don't remember any songs about wine and rubber ducks.  In fact, I think it was probably only the prospect of some gospel that got me to go to this play, because on paper it sounds downright depressing.  But hey, free tickets and all that. The life of a theatre review blog writer, eh?  Its a tough life but someone has to do it. 

Aaaaaanyways, I didn't realise that this play was going to be funny as well. I'm not entirely sure that its meant to be funny, but sometimes the inflexion of a line or phrase can make something funny when the playwright didn't mean it to be.  Sometimes, however, I think that one of the lead peformances tipped very dangerously towards the line that divides humour and parody, actually crossing that line several times, to the character's detriment.  At least one of the lead performances wasn't very good at all, but there were three stunning performances to compensate for this, and the singing was fecking amazing. And one of the lead performers acted like a dream and sang like a saint, so double bubble.  And the theatre was packed.  Which is nice.

Now, I'm going to be contentious here for a moment.  And some of you are going to raise your eyebrows and some of you are going to say nasty things and I'm telling you here and now, brothers and sisters, that any nasty comment is going to be ignored and deleted so save yourself the bother.  My comment is about black people at the theatre.  Not on stage; in the audience.  Theatre audiences, in my experience, are predominantly white.  In the main, black culture has not (until relatively recently) really embraced theatre; there are historical and cultural reasons for this which are beyond the scope of this blog.  My point is that this is a play by a black writer, featuring a black cast of characters and which deals with black issues and gospel music.  And yet there were so few black faces in the audience.  I counted a dozen, maybe.  Why?  If the remit of the National Theatre is to present theatre for everyone, why can I find no publicity for this production in The Voice?  Why isn't the National reaching out to black audiences and saying "come and see this play"?  Yes, yes, I know - you are going to wonder why I think black audiences would be particularly interested. Well, I think they would be.  And I was slightly bothered that there seemed to be so few black faces in the audience. And that, brothers and sisters, is the end of the contentious paragraph. 

I swear that a lot of the scenery from this show was recycled from the Lenny Henry version of The Comedy of Errors from 2011 - which I saw but cannot see that I reviewed, for some reason.  Possibly because it was so bad I couldn't bring myself to experience it again by writing about it.  Certainly a lot of the architectural backdrop I am sure I have seen before somewhere.  Still, it is nice to see the National re-using stuff. 

The central performance of Pastor Margaret is stunning. Marianne Jean-Baptiste takes on a character which, when you sit back and think about it, is terribly unsympathetic; cold, intolerant, inflexible, unforgiving, unheeding of those nearest to her.  And yet I wager that there was not one person last night who wasn't 100% on her side by the end of the play.  The play is essentially about a power struggle and even I sat there thinking "Oh lordy, is she going to pull this one off?  Or not?"  She is magnificently supported by Sharon D. Clarke, who gives one of the "realest" performances of the evening - understated (not really that difficult when surrounded by caricature, granted) and focussed, and when she sings, I am sure that there are angels above weeping with joy.  Jeez, can this woman give it some. I am still not entirely sure what her character is actually making in the kitchen in the second half - three eggs, a good slosh of milk and what appears to be salt and pepper are whipped up with an egg whisk and then returned to the fridge.  Scrambled eggs perhaps - but would you put them back in the fridge uncooked?   Lucian Msamati is also amazing in the small but pivotal role of Luke.  Unfortunately the same cannot be said for Eric Kofi Abrefa as David - probably the least convincing performance of the evening.  Cecilia Noble's performance as Sister Moore is going to divide people, I think.  Some will love it, some (like me) will think that her performance tips over the line into caricature just that once too often.  Jaqueline Boatswain hasn't yet managed to cover up her London vowel sounds, which keep popping through her accent; this is annoying.  There was one point where I swear her accent went completely for an entire paragraph.  Naana Agyei-Ampadu does an extremely good job with an extremely small role. 

Chapeau to the London Community Gospel Choir who provide the music.  Amazing. Simply amazing.  And worth the price of the ticket alone (it was free, but you know what I mean).   

Billy [still on crutches] - Union Theatre, Thursday 30th May 2013 (preview performance)

Synopsis

A young clerk in a gloomy North Country undertaker's office, Billy's humdrum job, wild imagination and unhappy family life, leads him on frequent flights to "Ambrosia," a mythical kingdom where he is crowned king, general, lover or any idealized hero the real situation of the moment makes him desire. His vacillating commitment and immaturity have created situations which make Ambrosia all the more attractive.

He's succeeded in becoming engaged to two different girls simultaneously, while in love with a third, Liz. He's in hot water with his employer, having spent a rather large sum of postage money on his personal frivolities. And last, but not least, his dream of becoming a highly-paid, famous scriptwriter in London seems doomed to failure. The only person in his life capable of bringing him down to earth is Liz, and she's having a difficult time of it.

Finally, he gets his life sufficiently in order to leave for London with his true love. Billy still hasn't come to grips with the real world by the end of the film. He leaves the train to buy milk from a vending machine and watches the train slowly pull out for London with Liz aboard. He returns to the more comfortable shelter of his parents home, Ambrosia and his imagination.

Cast:

Billy Fisher – Keith Ramsey

Geoffrey, his dad – Mark Carroll

Alice, his mum – Ricky Butt

Gran – Paddy Glynn

Cllr Duxberry – Mark Turnbull

Shadrack, the Undertaker – Michael Adams

Liz – Katerina Stearman

Barbara – Rosie Clarkson

Rita – Laura Bryars

Arthur – Adam Colbeck-Dunn

 

Creative Team:

Based on “Billy Liar” by Keith Waterhouse and Willis Hall

Music by John Barry

Lyrics by Don Black

Book by Dick Clement and Ian La Frenais

Director: Michael Strassen

Musical Director: Richard Bates

Costume: Elle-Rose Hughes

 

For chrissakes be well-behaved if you decide to go and see this, because the Director is a real cow, and you are liable to get a slap (or, at the very least, a detention and 250 lines) if you misbehave in any way.  I KNOW that audiences these days have little consideration for performers and fellow audience members and are liable to either forget to turn their mobile phone off (so that it generally goes off during the quiet bits) or, even worse, sit there fiddling with it because nobody has an attention span of more than 7.3 minutes any more, but I really don’t expect to be treated like a naughty schoolboy while sitting waiting patiently for a show to start.  I know that preview performances are an anxious time for a director, who has probably not had a decent night’s sleep for a week or so beforehand, and it can't have helped that someone very audibly complained to their companion that they thought it was going to be Billy Elliott but I don’t expect to be told “Right everyone, turn your mobile phones OFF and NO sitting there texting or updating Facebook or whatever, OK?”.  The audience cowered slightly and collectively and Herr Direktor stalked off towards the wings, trailing a nervous stage manager in his wake like an anxious tugboat bobbing around a cruise liner.  It was then that anxious tugboat pointed out to HMS Direktor that there had been a spillage of some kind in one of the voms (luvvie-speak for vomitorium, ie one of the places where the cast make their entrances and exits and access backstage) and he was off again: “WHO spilled this drink here?  Has someone spilled their DRINK HERE??!!!” (pointing).  The audience sat there in that slightly dangerous silence you used to get when everyone knew that someone had put a fake dog turd in the teacher’s drawer, most of you knew who had put it there but nobody was about to own up and wouldn’t point the finger for fear of being called a Grass for the rest of term.  Tugboat steamed off for a mop and HMS Director sailed off into the sunset covered in outraged righteousness.   So just be warned, OK, don’t upset the director or you may find yourself spending the rest of the evening in A&E at Guy’s just down the road. 

 

I hope that HMS Director had a word with his cast afterwards.  C’mon people, this is supposed to be a professional show.  There are standards, even at the Union.  It doesn’t take much to give your trousers a quick press, make sure your shoes are clean, find a pair of socks that aren’t more hole than sock and think ahead and wear a white jockstrap under your white Y-fronts if you are going to take your trousers off in front of the audience, because a black jockstrap under white Y-fronts really don’t look classy.  If your leading man’s tie is outside his collar and at half mast, put it right for him rather than leaving him looking like a reject from the gallows. And, Mr. Tugboat, if your cast are sitting round a table with a cloth on it which is referred to in the score as being stripey,  have a bit of a rummage around for a stripey tablecloth rather than chucking on a plain one and hoping nobody will notice. Give it a rinse through in the sink first.   If one of your props is a coffin, for Pete’s sake at least DUST IT even if you can’t be bothered to give it a wipe over with a damp cloth and a squirt of Mr. Sheen.   If one of your cast has to dress as Marilyn Munroe and you have a limited budget for wigs, either learn to dress your wig yourself or take it to a good hairdresser and say “This currently looks like a dead gerbil that died after a long and protracted struggle with mange but I need it to look like Marilyn Munroe”. 

 

In its first professional incarnation, this show apparently filled the Theatre Royal Drury Lane for nearly two years.  God only knows how, because it seems such a little show.  I really can’t imagine it on an enormous stage – there just doesn’t seem to be enough of it.  Most of the settings are domestic – the dining room of a small terraced house, an undertaker’s office, a provincial nightclub – and even in the confined space of the Union they didn’t seem to fill all the available space.  Perhaps its just this production that makes it seem small.  Even the fantasy sequences, set in Billy’s mythical kingdom of Ambrosia, look and feel cramped.  The show itself feels horribly dated, yet not yet old enough to feel period.  Its quaint, homespun, almost parochially English, with comedy Northerners being jolly and singing ditties about “When a’wur a lad”.  Fortunately no whippets, cloth caps or brass bands, but I can’t see this show ever making it on Broadway.  It would need a glossary in the programme or simultaneous translation. 

 

It really doesn’t help when your leading man, playing an unsympathetic, gormless character, plays it so gormless that you would gladly get up and throttle him with his own underpants.  Keith Ramsey as Billy has a terrible habit of tilting his head, adopting a strange leer and looking out of the top corners of his eyes.  Whether this attitude is supposed to represent dreamy indecision or sheer gormlessness I don’t know, (or even whether it is merely done to avoid making eye contact with any of the audience) but it’s done to excess and it drove me fecking mad. In the original production, the show was a success mainly due to the charisma of Michael Crawford in the title role, but Ramsey has none.  He is just gormlessly irritating.   Rosie Clarkson as Barbara does a nice job of repressed virginity, and  Ricky Butt gives a sterling performance as Billy’s harassed and bewildered mother (and she can tap like a dream, too).     Katerina Stearman, in her first acting role as Liz, seemed really, really hesitant and unsure at first but seemed to warm up towards the end and possesses the rare and amazing ability to make herself cry (properly, mark you) on demand. 

 

So there were a few (a very few) bright points in this production but its general lack of polish, coupled with a dreary plot, unsympathetic lead character and major downer of an ending made me relieved when it was all over. I know that the Union works on a budget that wouldn’t even keep The Mousetrap in fake snow but I’ve seen shows here that knock Billy out through the window and into the street in terms of production values, and certainly I’ve never been harangued by a director before.  There must be better shows to do than resurrect this dreary old museum piece.

The highlight of the evening, undoubtedly, was finding a pair of RayBan sunglasses down the side of my seat as I got up to leave.  Thank god that HMS Director didn’t see me put them in my pocket or I’d be in detention from now until Michelmas.



 

London Wall [on two crutches] - St. James Theatre, Wednesday 8th May 2012

Synopsis:

The offices of Messrs. Walker, Windermere and Co., Solicitors, London Wall, 1931.  New secretary Miss Milligan is unsure about her relationship with Hector Hammond, who works in the shipping offices downstairs.  Miss Janus's 10 year courtship with a member of the Dutch Legation doesn't seem to be going anywhere.  Miss Bufton is managing to keep several suitors "on the go" at the same time. Miss Hooper is waiting for her (married) boyfriend to get a divorce - but will she be able to get him to pop the question once it is through?  Mr. Brewer, the office Lothario, is eyeing up Miss Milligan.  Miss Willesden, one of the firm's most troublesome clients, wants to change her Will (again).  Mr. Walker merely wonders whether any of his staff will manage to do some work today instead of trying to sort their personal lives out. 

For Miss Milligan, there is a surprise in store from an unexpected direction, while Miss Janus has little inkling that a surprise is coming her way too - but it won't be nearly so welcome....

Cast:

Birkenshaw: Craig Vye

Mr. Brewer: Alex Robertson

Miss Hooper: Eleanor Yates

Miss Janus: Alix Dunmore

Miss Milligan: Maia Alexander

Miss Willesden: Marty Cruickshank

Hector Hammond: Timothy O'Hara

Miss Bufton: Mia Austen

Mr. Walker: David Whitworth

Creative Team:

Play by: John Van Druten

Director: Tricia Thorns

Set: Alex Marker

Costumes: Emily Stuart

Lighting: Duncan Coombe

I had no idea that it was so bloody exhausting hobbling round on crutches.  With a foot the size of a melon and an almost completely unbendable ankle, both jobbies had to be pressed into service to get me from Victoria Station to the St. James' Theatre, where this show has just transferred from the weird and wonderful Finborough Theatre in downtown Earl's Court.  I arrived exhausted and grouchy, and was in no mood to tackle the almost vertical stairs down into the auditorium, particularly when I noticed a most peculiar thing about the lighting in this place.  There are vertical yellow lights recessed into the wall, and they have the extremely disconcerting effect of leaving red "light smears"on your retina should you catch them out of the corner of your eye at any point.  This made my progress down the stairs somewhat more like a trip to a fairground Fun House than I would have liked; for anyone not that steady on their feet, this place is really dangerous.  Heaven knows what suffers of epilepsy make of the place.  But of course, no doubt the fashionable architects who designed the place never considered that.  It makes a strange counterpoint to the stripped back, minimalist, uber-fashionable St. James' Bar that you enter through, feeling like a poor relation and suddenly realising how shabby yours shoes look as The Trendy St. James' expense account clientele sip the latest designer cocktail up at the carrera marble bar. 

Anyway, I wasn't entirely sure what I was going to get. It turned out that I got a play which is sometimes so dated that it creaks audibly, and a play which is sometimes so relevant that it sparkles.  I got a play that has elements of high and low comedy, farce, drama. pathos and tension - so much so that I still can't work out in my head whether it could be classified as a straight play with comedy, a comedy with tragic interludes, a tragedy with elements of farce or a farce masquerading as a straight play.  At times you don't notice that you are watching a chimera, an  uneasy blending of several different dramatic styles and formats because you get caught up in the comedy (or the tragedy, or whatever other theatrical style is currently to the fore).  At other times the gear changes are very (and awkwardly) noticeable - its almost like you are watching an experimental play written by J. B. Priestly in one of his "messging about with time" modes, during the writing of which he thought "I'm going to put together a story and tell it from the point of the comedy in it, and then we're going to go back to the beginning and tell it again from the viewpoint of a different character and highlight the tragedy, then back to the beginning again and make it a straight play, and then again and make it a farce, and then at the end for one last time with all the elements blended together".  The plot is clunky and the end (or part of it) is given away completely just before the interval  in an exchange of dialogue so pointed that you almost expect a hooter to go off and the words "plot device" picked out in neon to flash on and off above the stage.  Its so obvious what is going to happen that it really is quite laughable. 

There are three superb performances, most notably by Alix Dunmore as the fading Miss Janus, wrestling with the thought that she is marrying a man she doesn't really love simply to escape the awful prospect of spending the rest of her life as the office spinster on £3 a week and caring for her elderly father.  She is ably assisted by Mia Austen as the blousy Miss Bufton (peroxide hair, dodgy vowel sound, a different man every night and the 6.10 from Liverpool Street) and Alex Robertson as the repulsive Mr. Brewer.  The side is very badly let down by Maia Alexander who cannot project her dialogue, despite having trained at RADA and who seems to drift aimlessly around the stage jellyfish-like and seemingly without any backbone whatsoever.  Her performance is so bland, so underplayed and so listless that it was only with the greatest difficultly that I managed to restrain myself from hobbling onto the stage and hitting her with my crutch. 

Some of the costumes are so accurate that they make the characters wearing them look as if they had just stepped out of a period photograph, while others look as if they had been pulled from the rag bags put out for the charity shop dustbins.  Likewise some of the hairstyles are spot on for the period, while others are at least a decade out - long, curly tresses were not fashionable duing the 1930s. The set is clever and the scene changes are slickly handled by the entire cast, elegantly and efficiently choreographed and carried out completely in character.  Elements of the direction bothered me slightly, most noticeably during the more farcical moments when seemingly everyone is sent the long way round the front of a desk rather than taking the more direct and logical route across the back of the stage.  There are some issues with badly placed chairs in the scenes in Mr Walker's office and both exits from the stage seem rather cramped, meaning that characters often appear to be sidling off through a door rather than exiting through it naturally. 

All in all a good evening, which would have been better if the play had been rather more sure of what it was trying to be.  It would have worked as a straight play, a tragi-comedy or a farce but not a blend of all three.  It's a period piece which hasn't been seen since its first run and I very much doubt whether it will ever surface again after this outing. 

http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2013/feb/05/london-wall-review

http://www.ayoungertheatre.com/review-london-wall/

http://www.theartsdesk.com/theatre/london-wall-finborough-theatre

Venus and Adonis [on a crutch] - Isango Ensemble @ Shakespeare's Globe, Friday 3rd May 2013

Synopsis:

Venus, Goddess of Love, is playing with her son Cupid and is pricked by one of his arrows. Under its influence, she sees the beautiful mortal Adonis and is consumed with passion for him. She ambushes him while he is on his way to the hung and attempts to seduce him. She conjures a mare to captivate his horse and it follows the mare into the forest, leaving Adonis trapped with no means of leaving. All day long she tries to persuade him to make love to her, offering him freely all the delights of her divine body but he remains impervious.

As evening falls, he agrees to kiss her farewell hoping that this will satisfy her so that he can escape to his friends and prepare for the next day’s hunt. Driven to new heights of arousal by the kiss and frantic at the thought that he may be killed the following day, she once again attempts to force herself on him, but is again unsuccessful and he escapes.

The following day she hears the sound of the hunt and searches for Adonis. She follows the sounds of the horns and finds a boar at bay, tusks dripping with blood. She is confronted by Death, whom she berates. Hearing the horns, she apologises to Death for her mistake but at that moment sees Adonis with his side ripped open. As she watches, his body melts away and a white flower, speckled with the red of his blood, grows where he lay. She is distraught and fortells that all love will now be tainted with jealously; it will be fickle and false, making fools of both men and women. It will be the cause of war and from that day forth those that love the most shall enjoy it the least. She fades away into the forest.

Cast:

Venus (in order of appearance):

Pauline Malefane

Busisiwe Ngejane

Noluthando Boqwana

Nobulumko Mngxekeza

Zokeka Mpotsha

Zanele Mbatha

Bongiwe Mapassa

Adonis: Mhlekazi Mosiea

Boar: Luvo Rasmeni

Death: Zebulon Mmusi

Cupid: Zamile Gantana

Creative Team:

Words: Will Shakespeare

Director: Mark Dornford-May

Conductor: Mandisi Dyantyis

Choreography: Lungelo Ngamlana

Costume: Gail Behr

Ah, spring. When a young man’s fancy turns to planting stuff on the allotment. Unfortunately, this young man managed to fall over and snap a ligament that day so it was with a crutch and a right foot looking like a black grapefruit that I managed to crawl to the Globe Theatre and review this through a red mist of pain. The things I put myself through for you lot. Having sounded off before about how bloody miserable the Globe Stewards can be, I have to (in the main) retract that statement and thank them for – more or less – putting themselves through hoops to help me get around, particularly a lovely lady called Francesca who took me up to my seat via the goods lift, allowing me a privileged look at the general backstage clutter and several cast members in their scanties. Wasn’t quite so keen on the woman afterwards who, when called upon to provide assistance in getting a taxi back to the station, said merely that there was a taxi rank at Southwark Tube Station (further away than London Bridge station itself and a long, painful hobble on one leg and a crutch). When this fact was pointed out, all we got was a telephone number scribbled on a post-it note and shoved in our general direction. So, Globe, still lots of PR training needed front of house please.

A while back, and with a different hat on, I waxed extremely lyrical of the Isango Ensemble's production of The Magic Flute at the Young Vic. In fact, it probably still stands as the most I have ever enjoyed an opera performance (there are many contenders for the least enjoyed, with a four-hour production of Ariodante in Barcelona probably taking the gong). So that’s why I staggered up to central London on public transport to see this company have a bash at an obscure Shakespeare poem and in the main, I wasn’t disappointed. It was performed with the same amount of obvious joy and conviction, even if the plot (if it can really be called such) doesn’t lend itself to quite the same level of creativity and sustained humour. Even though its presented in a mixture of languages (English, IsiZulu, IsiXhosa, SeSotho, Setswana and Afrikaans), there are laughs aplenty and nobody misses many of the subtleties of the dialogue because this production simply shows that you don’t need to know a language if the essentials of the plot are spelled out clearly enough for you through mime, facial expression, body language and the occasional bit of slapstick. Add the elemental, pounding rhythms of African music and amazing tribal choreography and you’re onto a winner. A pity that the audience was relatively thin and that this production was only showing for four performances but Bwana, I was close to throwing away my stick and getting on down with the best of them. Judging by the audience reaction, I wasn’t alone. There is something primeval about that music, those rhythms, something that transcends race, time and culture, something that just reaches inside and evokes a response from feelings and memories deep and dark and long suppressed.

The most interesting concept was to have the female lead played by seven women in rotation (and sometimes in combination or even all at once) in order to demonstrate that a goddess can show whichever face she pleases and can be mother, wife, lover or whore when attempting to capture her man, depending on the occasion (and the man). A simple length of white cloth, wound round the body in a variety of ways, starts off echoing the classical drapery that Venus traditionally wears but becomes skirt, scarf, brassiere, cloak, blindfold, rope, blanket and, eventually, shroud. There’s no need for scenery – you supply that, so you can set the story where you please, either in a sylvan glade or thornbushes and sand dunes. There is physical comedy aplenty – a seductive roll of a pair of ample hips, the batting of a pair of large brown eyes, the shooing away of an unwanted spectator. The masterstroke is having Cupid played by an enormously fat man in a skin-tight white T shirt with the word “Cupid” emblazoned across the paunch – it makes everyone laugh and gets the audience completely on your side by reassuring them that this isn’t going to be highbrow.

The paper-thin plot doesn’t really allow for much development, and the wordy bits seem to drag a little compared with the dancing and the physical action, but make no mistake, on a warm spring evening it was a pleasure to be there and feel the beat – even though some of this was the throbbing in my foot. I enjoyed it even through the pain.

What the critics thought:

http://quietasmouse.wordpress.com/2013/04/30/review-venus-and-adonis-at-shakespeares-globe/

http://www.theartsdesk.com/theatre/globe-globe-venus-and-adonis-shakespeares-globe

Exhibition review - Riverbed Rotherhithe, Oxford House Gallery, Friday 5th April 2013

Contining the theme of personal objects discarded or lost by individuals, Riverbed Rotherhithe is a collection of photographs of everyday things that have somehow made their way into the Thames and been washed up on its shores.  Like the artefacts from the Pompeii exhibition reviewed recently, each one of these objects is, in itself, apparently trivial.  And yet there is a story waiting to be written about each of them if you think slightly deeper.  What was on the cassette tape?  Why did Miss S. Jamieson cut her credit card in two and throw it in the river?  Did a modern-day Cinderella lose her black patent leather shoe while running from her handsome prince, and did he ever catch her?   What is the story behind the handle and mechanism from the safe? What did it contain and how did it end up in the river? Who threw their mobile phone into the river and why? And, most importantly, what dark and dastardly deed lurks behind the discarded rubber chicken?  Murder most fowl?

This is Mary Fitton's first exhibition, and I long to see more of her work (I hear that one of her favourite subjects for holiday snaps is doorways).  Over the last 20 years, Mary - librarian, ukelele player and photographer - has been visiting the reaches of the Thames at Rotherhithe to seek out the seemingly everyday bits and pieces that are discarded or lost and end up as flotsam on the shingle.  Around 50 images, along with the items themselves, are on display at the Oxford House Gallery in Bethnal Green, and each asks more questions than they give answers, if you are feeling in a philosophical mood.  If you're not, then WYSIWYG - what you see is what you get - beautifully shot images of unconsidered trifles, discarded items of no further use, framed by the river-washed pebbles in which they were found. You can almost hear the slow lap of the muddy waves, the wash from a passing boat, the indignant squawk of a solitary seagull. 

Prints can be bought framed or unframed, and there is also a range of good quality postcards for sending or displaying. The only major disappointment is that the rubber chicken isn't one of them.  Riverbed Rotherhithe runs until 30th April.  Admission free. 

Images are (c) Mary Fitton and reproduced with the artist's permission

Exhibition review - Life and Death in Pompeii and Herculaneum, British Museum, Monday 1st April 2013

Ah, late summer. The fruit is ripening in the orchard, the vines are heavy with grapes, the goats are bleating lazily on the hillside, and down on the beach the fishing boats are landing with that morning’s catch of lobsters, shrimps and more types of fish than you can shake a stick at. All’s right with the world. And then the local mountain goes off bang and before you know it you’re being prodded by Mary Beard and all your personal bits and bobs are being stared at by thousands of people at the British Museum.

The fascination with Pompeii and Herculaneum endures because they give us a unique snapshot of a vibrant, bustling society caught at a moment in time. Millions make the journey to Pompeii every year and return home hot, knackered, dusty, footsore, sunburned and more than slightly bewildered about what all the fuss is for. Because lets face it, Pompeii is dead. There is little there to give you the feeling that people – real people – once trod those cobbled streets and lived in those ruined houses, eating, cooking, arguing with the neighbours, laughing, dealing with the laundry, buying a new bit of furniture, planning a party or taking a bath. Its only when all your everyday bits and bobs are collected together again that it really becomes possible for other people to relate to your everyday life and realise that yes, you were once like us. That is what Pompeii lacks – a sense of real life. If your home was suddenly buried under 30 feet of volcanic ash and miraculously preserved for 2000 years, what would bring it to life for people poking round it would be the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, the open book face down on the table to mark your place, the stray sock that had eluded the washing machine, the picture that you never got around to hanging propped up against the wall - the stupid, pointless, everyday, banal details of daily life. The life you once lived in Pompeii is here in London at the moment, and we are all staring at your pile of dirty dishes and thinking “you were just like us”. And that’s what makes this exhibition so moving.

The exhibition is cleverly arranged to represent the rooms in your house that hot August (or was it October?) afternoon. Outside in the public street are displayed the tools of the tradesmen you passed every day – the brewer, the fishmonger, the carpenter, your wife’s hairdresser - along with the stone tablet that hung like an tiny inn sign from the wall, marking the edge of your property and forever bearing witness to that time you argued with your neighbour about who exactly had responsibility for sweeping that bit of path. Invite us in – we want to poke around. Yes, we will be careful of the dog. Who’s a good boy den? Who’s a woofles den? No, its fine, its only bleeding a little bit.

Here in the atrium – the “display” area of your home, its quite dark, with the only direct light coming through the hole in the roof and reflecting off the rectangular pool of water – I think you called it an impluvium? There is a tasteful mosaic floor – the bit directly inside the door shows a picture of the dog tied up outside it. You liked your silly jokes just like us, didn’t you? That’s a portrait of you and your wife, isn’t it? Very nice. Lovely. Very lifelike. A very handsome couple you make. I bet you must have had to stand still for hours while the mosaic-maker chappie did that.

That’s a very impressive herm standing in front of the pool – Lucius Caeciluis Iucundus, isn’t it? I recognised him immediately by that enormous wart on his cheek. Its very realistic – but I don’t ever remember Lucius walking around with his knackers hanging out on display. Oh, I remember you telling me – that’s apparently an invocation of good luck for the household. There’s a bit of window glass – a rare and valuable thing in your day and one we take so much for granted now. Perhaps this is why nobody seems to be giving it much attention, even though it is made out of a single sheet of transparent mica. And a little chest, with a drawer and two doors that open to show a single shelf. No doubt you kept important bits of paper and things in it once – or maybe just odd bits of string, a spare door key and some dried rose petals wrapped in a scrap of cloth. What a shame that the heat of the blast carbonised it completely; I expect it was quite pretty once, if a bit utilitarian by your standards. Why does the sight of it bring a slight lump to my throat? I suppose its because we’ve got one almost exactly the same (OK, its not burnt, but otherwise its exactly the same). You had the carpenter make it for you, we bought it flatpacked from IKEA, but its exactly the same design. Your furniture looked like ours. We were the same. I don’t like the fact that all your labels are in such small type and stuck well below eye level, as usual. Nor that they are written in such Lowest Common Denominator terminology that the curtainhook in the shape of the prow of a boat is labelled “in the shape of the prow (the front) of a ship”. I suppose I’m lucky that its not described as “the pointy bit” If it’s OK with you, I’ll take the mosaic of Fido home with me. Put it to one side for a bit while I wander round your bedroom. Glad you’ve hidden all the dirty laundry away.
 

That’s a lovely lampstand you have there. Wonderful bit of craftsmanship, and exactly what I would have expected a Roman lampstand to look like. Oh look, the bits screw apart so you can store it away when you don’t need it. Clever. Do you find bronze difficult to keep clean? I’ll take it with me – stand it in the atrium next to the mosaic. It’s very dark in here now, isn’t it? Oh shit, I’ve kicked something. Oh. Shit. Literally. Well, fancy keeping your chamber pots there. My fault for making you move the lamp. And now we’ve woken the baby.

In 2000 years time this will be the only known example in the world of a Roman baby’s cradle, probably because once you had no further use for it, you gave it away to someone who needed one, just like we do. Or chucked it away. Or took it apart and used the wood for something else. Well, its only a cradle, right? And I’m sure that the first thing you did when the ash started to fall was take the baby out of it………Oh. Oh Christ. I’m really sorry. Truly I am. Look, don’t cry.

Come out into the hortus for a breath of fresh air. There’s much more light out here and the air isn’t so full of lamp fumes What a lovely hortus – so many lovely flowers and statues. I’m not sure I like those ones ranged up against the wall – “The Dancers” you call them? Well, they would have looked much more effective stood in a ring around the fountain. . Pretty that. I expect the piping cost an awful lot of money. We’ll be able to see the bits of bronze piping and the stopcock in 2000 years time in a glass case but for now I’ll just admire the fine carving of the marble bowl and be satisfied. The fluting is very, very fine. Lovely. And the sound of the water splashing is so pleasant and cooling in this heat.

Its clever that the shape of the bowl is echoed so well by that second one. That one. The one with the pigeon sitting on it. Oh, that’s clever. It’s a garden fresco – and there was me thinking it was a big window cut into the wall showing another garden area behind it. It looks so lifelike, it had me fooled completely. We still grow all these flowers and plants today, you know. Let me see – rose, daisy, ivy, poppy, laurel, oleander, screw pine, arbutus, viburnum.

And on that one, that thrush – very possibly the most famous thrush in all history – seems to be perching on the bamboo support that the rose is climbing up. Hang on – bamboo? That’s an oriental plant, surely? Which means that your people must have known about China? And that someone had been there and brought back a bamboo plant? Can we sit down for a second while I think about this?

 

On that seat by that statue of a goat……. Oh. Its not a goat. Well – it is a goat, but not only a goat. There’s Pan. With the goat. Er….. with the goat. Er…..yes. Um. No, I don’t know why I’m blushing, I’m sure its perfectly natural that Pan is such good friends with the goat and I’m sure that its very commonplace for you to have such things in your garden because after all Pan is the god of - erm,. goats and stuff and its only my modern sensibilities that are making it seem in any way unusual or at all embarrassing to some people. It caused a terrible fuss in The Telegraph. Still, its beautifully carved. And Pan is quite a big chap, isn’t he? In the bedroom equipment department – or should that be the stable equipment?

You know, now I look at it properly, it does look very sensual – almost as if Pan is about to kiss the goat. And the goat doesn’t exactly seem to be struggling, does he? Sorry, she. I suppose its not every goat that gets to be ravished by a God. Yes. Very - unusual. Um. Shall we go in?
 

This is what we’ll call the living room, or the lounge, or the front room in 2000 years time. Yes, it is a bit dull really – a bit formal-looking with all those examples of frescoes on the walls. Seen one fresco, seen them all, really. Mind you, I like the fact that there are examples of several completely different styles hanging next to each other to explain evolving fashions in wall covering. You were just like us – forever changing your home, forever updating, forever looking at wallpaper samples. Wallpaper. Its – well – paper that you hang on the wall, in the future. Yes, I suppose it is quite difficult to look at samples of fresco. You can hardly sit there leafing through a pattern book while drinking your tea, can you? The bits would fall off.  Tea. It’s a drink, made from the dried leaves of a plant in the future. You pour hot water on it and add sugar and milk. Sugar. It’s a plant – oh never mind. Do you mind if we don’t look at any more frescoes? I’m sure that everyone in the future finds them just as dull as I do, like looking at historic bits of wallpaper. That marble carving is interesting. Why are the buildings in it leaning over? Oh, it shows an earthquake. Do you get many of them around here? No, I wouldn’t say that it was pretty, exactly. Interesting. Prescient.

 

I love that mosaic with all the sea creatures on it. I see you’ve got it where it should be, as part of the floor, whereas in the future it will be hanging on a wall in a frame. Yes, I agree, pretty pointless, but easier to stand in front of and look at. It really proves just how rich your diet was in seafood. All those different species. I like the lobsters particularly. So lifelike. Can I take it with me? Put it in the atrium next to the lampstand and the dog mosaic. Oh, I forgot to choose something from the hortus.I can’t really make up my mind between the fresco with the thrush on it or the naughty goat statue, but the rules of the game don’t allow me to take more than one thing from each room. Oh, ok, the naughty goat statue, just for the sake of a bit of shock value and to upset the Telegraph readers.

 

Kitchen this way? Why is the toilet in here? Isn’t that a bit dangerous? We would throw up our hands in horror in the future if we found a toilet in the kitchen. Well, because you can’t take a dump in the room that food is prepared in, it will make you ill. You didn’t know that back then? Is that why so many of your kitchens have good luck charms all over the place? Perhaps you should spread the word round about washing your hands properly. Because of germs. Germs. Little tiny animals that spread illness. So small you can’t see them. Really.
 

Well, I recognise most of your food. A loaf of bread, somewhat burned, but still very recognisably and obviously bread. I suppose your baker didn’t have time to stop and take the loaves from the oven when the sky began to fall. And so they stayed in the oven for 2000 years. Its round, marked into sections. Tear and share.

And dishes of figs and dates and nuts and pomegranates and poppy seeds – all ripe. So it couldn’t have been August, more like mid to late September or even October. And a big glass jar with a cork stopper, still with the dregs of olive oil clinging to the inside. But you were like us – you enjoyed your food, and you didn’t mind shelling out for good ingredients now and again. How amazing that, after all this time we could (if we were allowed) uncork the bottle, put it to our lips and taste the oil made from the olives all those many centuries ago.

 

What a beautiful, beautiful colander. Just like the ones we have in 2000 years time, even if ours are not nearly so decorative. Nor made of bronze. But why shouldn’t something utilitarian still be beautiful to look at? Something like that was obviously a real pleasure to use.
 

And this is the drain that runs under your kitchen floor into the common sewer under the street? And here’s a display of things that you threw into the drain. Plates and dishes that someone made, someone else bought, used for a while, dropped and broke, scooped up and dropped them down the drain in order to be rid of them. And other things too, that you dropped in the street and that rolled away from your grasping fingers and disappeared from sight into the sewer while you stood there and cursed, or which fell from your pocket unnoticed and were kicked by an sandaled, unheeding foot, never to be seen again – or so you thought. A small oil lamp in the shape of an eagle, a tiny votive statue of a mother cradling a baby and which we now call “The Lady of the Drain”. Perhaps the owner was pregnant and on her way to the temple to offer the statue on the altar in exchange for the safe delivery of the child. a silent, desperate plea for clemency. Or perhaps the child had already been born and was sick, and this was a gift to the god of healing –, a trade for all those weary, frightened hours of gently rocking a cradle by the light of a flickering oil lamp and the prayers which lacked the power to heal. We’ll never know.

How you must have panicked when you got to the temple and found the statue was no longer in its wrapping, how you must have desperately retraced your steps through the crowded streets, scanning the road, worrying that the gods had truly turned their faces away from you. The child would have died anyway, that autumn afternoon, but you didn’t know that. We know, and it’s the broken plates and the tiny lamp and the little statue that bring home the fact that you were once like us, you had your little culinary accidents while your mind was occupied with bigger things, you threw things away and thought no more of them, you lost them and thought of them constantly and missed them and shared the news of their loss through your tears. It’s the broken plates and the tiny lamp and the little statue that make me pause and swallow the lump that rises to my throat and shout at you down the years that you should pack up your things and run, before its too late and the sky turns dark.
 

I've stopped choosing things to take home.  Put them back - they don't belong to me. They belonged to you.

And now, around this corner, are the things you tried to take with you at the last moment. Things that were found in the boathouse, down by the shore as you crouched in the darkness with your family, your friends, your slaves, the people from the house across the street. Things that we will find among your bones. A display of things marked “Choices – objects useful, valuable or simply cherished, carefully gathered or quickly grabbed; things that represent choices made in those few terrifying, uncertain hours”. A large oil lamp with shades made from transparent horn, which you grabbed to light your way through the dark streets leading down to the bay. A fistful of small change – the day’s takings from someone’s business. A wooden tablet, the writing on it long gone. What did it say? Why was it so important to you that you sought it out, took it from its hiding place and ran with it down to the shore? Did it prove you were no longer a slave? Was it the deed to your home, your business? Proof of your marriage? A good luck charm, which brought you no luck. A valuable pair of earrings – maybe a wedding gift. The key to your front door, slammed and locked behind you in the panic to keep your things safe until your return, a key that would never be used again, a key for a door that no longer exists, a door that you used a dozen times a day, a door that squeaked on its hinges and that you kept meaning to get fixed. A door that slammed shut as the ashes fell.

And finally, here are you.

Buried in solidified ash, your body rotted, leaving an empty shape. The shape of you. Sitting there – crying, coughing, weeping, praying, regretting the things said and the things unsaid, who knows? Only you. And there the rich woman, with the golden hair clasp, the bangle, the rings, the bag of coins. And here a family, perhaps your neighbours, perhaps strangers. Husband, wife, children. Thinking, hoping, praying that in the tiny cupboard underneath the stairs they were safe from the terror that fell from the sky.

Whoever they were, whoever you were, I looked around your home, shared your food, drank your wine, stroked your dog, woke your child, admired your wife’s jewellery and enjoyed spending time in your company.

Pax, Romana.